


Laid to Rest

by misura



Category: The White Mists of Power - Kristine Kathryn Rusch
Genre: M/M, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-26 03:12:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12547528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/pseuds/misura
Summary: "A real bed!" Seymour exclaimed in delight.(Byron and Seymour, on the road)





	Laid to Rest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eirenical (chibi1723)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibi1723/gifts).



"A real bed!" Seymour exclaimed in delight.

Byron smiled. He himself had been more grateful for the fresh bread that had accompanied their meal, but he was familiar by now with Seymour's passion for soft, comfortable beds.

True, getting the inn's best room had been expensive, but since Byron was posing as a noble, it would have been out of character for him to be willing to settle for anything less. And if the cost of the room had put a considerable dent in their funds - well, even if Seymour held firm on not being willing to use his magic to make some fake gold, Byron could get additional coin easily enough.

As long as he made sure not to get caught red-handed, nobody would suspect a nobleman of also being a thief. Even if anyone did, they would never dare to voice such a suspicion.

_If I have my way, one day, they will. Until that day, though, I suppose I might as well use the fact to my advantage._

Seymour was already stripping.

_Speaking of using circumstances to my advantage._

Byron had been reluctant, at first, to allow himself any level of intimacy with someone whom he had only known for such a short time. Even if Seymour had saved his life, Byron knew that it was dangerous for him to get too close to people - for them, that was.

He'd told himself that he did not want to repay Seymour's kindness and generosity by putting his life in danger. He'd told himself to take things slow, to wait for Seymour to make the first move.

Truth be told, he hadn't expected Seymour to actually do so.

When Seymour had, he'd been caught off-guard. He hadn't prepared any of the routine brush-offs or defenses that he should have prepared, about how they were two fugitives on the run for their lives who couldn't afford such distractions, or about how they were practically strangers, or anything else along those lines.

Instead, he'd been too surprised to do anything but go along with it, and now here they were.

At least Seymour hadn't seemed to notice Byron's tattoo yet - or if he had, he'd chosen not to ask about it. Byron thought that he should probably prepare some answers for when Seymour did ask. Some believable lie that Seymour would find easy enough to swallow.

_Of course, I could also tell him the truth. He's already a wanted man; it's not like my telling him the truth about who I am is going to make his position any worse._

_And it's not as if he would stop sleeping with me if he found out I was a prince. Probably._

"You look worried," said Seymour. Byron thought that if any of them looked worried, it was Seymour. As a bard, Byron was as good as a trained actor at concealing his emotions - a skill that also served him well when playing cards, although he had learned quickly that sore losers often posed a far greater risk than people with no idea of where their purse had gone. "Do you think the innkeeper suspects anything?"

Byron shook his head. "No. Why would he?"

"Then why the worried expression?" Seymour asked. He was half-naked. Half-dressed, too.

Byron almost wished that he could just walk away from everything. His close brush with death at the teeth and claws of Dakin's dogs had done more than bringing him together with Seymour, though. It had also reminded him that he had no choice.

As long as he lived, people would try to kill him. The only way he could hope to be safe was by sticking to his plan. By going home and reclaiming his name.

By making this kingdom once more a place where everyone might hope to live a good, happy life, instead of starving to death after a bad harvest, being denied not only mercy but justice.

"It's nothing," he said, reaching for Seymour's belt. "I was just thinking about last year's harvest."

Seymour frowned. "That's not really your problem, is it? I mean, I can see why it's bad for the farmers," he added, "but what can someone like you do about it? Other than offend another lord or lady by singing a song, that is."

Seymour's tone was light, joking, but his eyes were serious. Byron knew that if he were to seek the patronage of another noble lord or lady, to work his way into their confidence until he might hope to be heard when he advised them, Seymour would be right there, ready to run with him if things went bad.

_Or rather:_ when _things go bad._

Byron felt that he was running out of time, as well as out of lords and ladies to try and convince to take action, before it was too late.

"When the harvest fails, it's everyone's problem. At least, it should be."

"So you'll talk to the king," said Seymour, kicking off his shoes. His pants followed quickly.

"You say that like it's something anyone can do." _As it was, once upon a time._ So many things had changed, and few, if any, for the better. It might well take more than a lifetime to put everything back as it had once been, when the land had prospered.

"Not anyone, perhaps," Seymour acknowledged. "I'm pretty sure _you_ can, though."

_I'm pretty sure I have no choice. It's either talk to the king, or die trying._

Yet, if he died, what would happen to Seymour? Likely, he would be executed - one more death for which Byron was responsible, however unwillingly.

"I hope you're right," Byron said.

"Of course I'm right," said Seymour. He sounded almost offended. "Now, do you need any help undressing, or would you prefer to sit and brood a little longer?"

_I'd like to stay here, and look at you, and touch you, and be touched by you, and pretend that everything will end up all right. That I am as confident in my ability to succeed as you are, when the truth is that I am only confident in not having a choice._

Byron sighed. Seymour was right. He knew what he had to do. There was no point in worrying about it.

Especially not when there were other, far more enjoyable things he could be doing instead.


End file.
